


Compromised

by raffinit



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: And fucking making him beg for it, F/M, Light BDSM, Spanking, Temperature Play, again very mildly, dub-con, mostly it's Emily dominating Hotch, wax-play although very mildly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:31:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raffinit/pseuds/raffinit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Agent Hotchner is compromised when having volunteered to go undercover to infiltrate a French human trafficking ring that had progressed into serial killing. Emily must come in as the most experienced of the team to extract their Unit Chief. </p><p>The only question now is if they'll both be able to keep the act up long enough for the cavalry to arrive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Making the Sale

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning - I had to take a number of creative liberties for this, so any inaccuracy is apologized for. This could be considered the sequel to Crime & Punishment, or it could be stand alone as you wish, but it's mostly just me being sexually frustrated and wanting to let it out in the way I knew how. 
> 
> Bow chicka.

He's not sure how long it's been; his best guess is three days at most since he'd been exposed as a plant, three days since he’d been taken. At first, he was surprised at how well they kept him – the French are a little bit masochistic with their prisoners, and Hotch is both relieved and suspicious at the way they keep him clean and well fed. They strip him of his clothes the first day, beat him into submission but never bruise him, and leave him naked amidst the pile of flesh that is the rest of their prisoners.

By first night, Hotch learns that sleeping naked pressed against another naked man is what you have to do to survive the cold. He’s painfully self-conscious about his scars; even in the dark cellar, he feels the curious eyes on his skin as they trace the nine marks he bears. But there is no room for pride and modesty in the game of survival, and so Hotch wraps his arms around his shivering body, and presses as close as he can to the most robust male he can find there. The bigger mass means more heat, and he finds his theory correct; unfortunately the rest of them do as well, and he wakes under a puppy pile of hard flesh and awkward erections.

He almost loses himself in that moment – they’re all much too close and too tightly pressed into his skin, he forces himself to push it aside; compartmentalize like Prentiss does because it’s the only way to survive something like this.

It doesn’t mean he’s going to forget any of this.

The rest of the men in the cellar with him are all well-built and well-kept; at any given opportunity could rise up and defy their captors, but none do.

None want to try.

By the end of the second day, Hotch discovers why these men are here with him.

There will be an auction.

The sound of the metal gate grating against the cold stone floor pulls him from his thoughts, and Hotch stands as the figure walks towards him in the dim light. He tries to stand tall and proud, but even with the food he’s given, he’s weaker than he should be, and the man thinks that something’s been put in his food. His face is hard and unwavering when the shorter man materializes in front of him and Hotch gives him the coldest glare he can muster. The glare that had once shook the fiercest serial killers.

The man – Mercier is his name - doesn’t even blink.

“Enough with your silly games, _putain_ ,” he sneers, and Hotch must smother the urge to reach out and break his neck. “Your time has come, Agent Hotchner.” Two burly men appear behind him, and Hotch panics on instinct, but can go no further when their hands come gripping painfully tight on his limbs. He struggles and writhes and grunts as they subdue him; two bands of black leather are looped around his biceps, then his wrists, linked with a cold metal chain that tickles and chills his spine. The cold leather of a collar is slipped around his taut neck, and he feels the cold metal link itself to the collar.

He jerks on reflex, and is punished when the collar is tightened menacingly around his neck.

His throat constricts against his will, the sudden depravation of air forces him to sputter, and Hotch is ashamed to find himself staggering at the burst of stars under his eyelids. He manages to catch his breath, short as it is, but he manages to get his eyes to focus on the man in front of him. The men are now shoving him forward, forcing him to walk out of the cellar and leave the other men behind. He wonders why they take only him, and a heavy pit in his stomach conjures the image of a vile and painful death.

“Where are you taking me?” he demands as he is shoved through a doorway; the bright light blinds him, and he squints away from it. They ignore his questions and blusters, and he feels his masculinity falter somewhat at being manhandled by bigger, stronger men. They lead him down an extravagant hallway – a manor of some sort – down into a room, a room he knows not of which direction they’ve taken him. His eyes are dancing with black spots and stars, and only when he is shoved into a room do his eyes focus, and they settle upon two very familiar faces.

Mercier bows low. _“Bonsoir, madame,”_ he greets the taller woman, turning to Hotch and dragging him forward by the collar around his neck. It’s attached to a leather leash; a dog on show, as it were, but Hotch cannot focus on feeling offended, because he’s too busy gaping at the woman in front of him. The powerful younger man lingers in the shadows, silent and unmoving; most likely here as her security detail should things come to a misunderstanding.

Suddenly he’s painfully aware of his nudity – if he wasn’t before.

_“L’Américain, comme vous avez demandé.”_

He moves towards her before he can help himself – what is she doing here? How did she find him? Doesn’t she know what these men are capable of? Fortunately for them both, the men perceive this to be an advance of the threatening kind, and tug him harshly back into his place. Apparently it’s not uncommon for the captives to fight back. He stays in place this time, but his wide eyes track her face, speaking to her in the way they always have.

Silently.

Emily’s dark eyes rake over his body like a physical touch, her head tilts and her mouth curls into a coy smile of approval when she’s finished appreciating his lean and narrow body. The tight muscles that rope his arms and legs and body puts a wicked gleam in her dark eyes, and beneath her lashes, lust and anticipation is clear. Her eyes meet his for a brief moment; his surprise at her presence her is explained away by the sharp flash of her dark eyes.

_I’m here to get you out, you idiot. And now it’s my turn to punish you._

“ _C'est l'espion?”_ she asks the man, the French rolling off her tongue effortlessly. She’s dressed in a black leather trench coat, almost so skintight he’s sure she wears nothing underneath. His eyes track down her long, long legs, and he nearly swallows his tongue when he sees what are on her feet. More black leather ropes around her legs, in heels that should be illegal as their thin spidery limbs wrap sensuously around her slender calves and hug them up to her knees.

There’s an unfortunate twitching in his lower region, but he manages – just barely – to tamp it down.

“ _Oui. Il nous a trahis, et maintenant il est puni pour cela,”_ Mercier affirms, and smiles a leer at her when she tilts her head in thought. He knows by her face that she is American, despite her fluent French. It’s almost good enough to convince him, but she lacks the French tenacity. “As mentioned in his portfolio – he seems to be the head of a unit in the FBI; the BAU, I believe they are called.”

Emily hums thoughtfully, absorbing this information as her eyes never leave the faded scars on his body. They’ve paled out through the months and years, and now in their wake have left the pale pink lines that only seem to amplify the ruggedness of his body rather than take away from it.

“Won’t you inspect him, _madame?_ ”

A slow, seductive smile spreads over her lips, and the act in itself takes the breath out of his lungs. It takes the breath from all of the men’s lungs, but Hotch is the only one doing his best to hide it. As beautiful as Emily is – and she is _oh so beautiful indeed_ – he’s pretty sure men bound in leather and chains do not react sexually when their lives are in danger.

_“Avec plaisir.”_

She circles him first, slowly, like a lioness assessing her prey. His dark eyes track her slow, seductive steps; her legs are endless in black leather heels and a high collared coat. The game is on, and he must play his part, so he lunges at her with a snarl, only to be restrained by the leather bindings around his arms and the collar on his neck. The chain is wrapped tight around Mercier’s hand, and he tugs harshly at the collar as he spews French curses at the man.

Emily lifts a hand; long, slender and authoritative. It stills the smaller man, whose beady eyes dart between Hotch and Emily with an almost suspicious glance. “It’s fine,” her low voice thrums, a smile curving her blood red lips. She looks more demonic than amused, and Hotch must admit that it disconcerts him. “I like a little fight in them. It makes the breaking more interesting.”

“You can’t break me,” Hotch hisses at her, and a split second later is stunned speechless by a sharp stinging slap to his face.

It leaves a burn across his mouth in a red brand.

Emily’s eyes are fiery when she leans in dangerously close; so close he can smell the vanilla scent of her perfume. “I do not tolerate insolence from my studs, whore.” She spits the insult viciously, and then her hand is grasping his chin in a grip that actually makes him wince at the pressure. Her short nails dig into his skin, and his eyes pop open as he gasps. Her dark eyes are directly on his; the coldness there unsettles him – Emily is a master of disguise and deceit, she was in Interpol after all.

But just how far is she willing to go to hold off until extraction?

“You will know your place, or I’ll buy you off this man just to have the pleasure of killing you myself,” she hisses, and shoves his face away, leaving behind the red crescents of her nails on his skin. A sharp breath is sucked in through her nose, and Emily is back to an image of serene authority. “Now, let’s see what they’ve done to you then, whore.”

Mercier is impressed. Perhaps she is French after all.

Hotch’s glowering eyes never leave the wall across of him as her hands slide along his skin; it takes every ounce of his control not to shiver at the touch as her slender fingers squeeze at his limbs. Her hand grips his face again, squeezing hard enough to force his mouth open and he jerks it away stubbornly. This time real irritation flashes in the woman’s eyes, and she sinks her other hand into his short hair, tugging hard until he bears his teeth in a hiss. Reluctantly he lets her open his mouth; inspect his teeth and tongue and skin.

It's a risky business, he supposes. Hygiene is everything.

"He's very well kept," she comments, sliding her fingers under his jaw, pressing against the ticking muscle there. Her dark eyes are hooded, and within them he sees the sheath of coldness and lust intermingling. As if to infuriate him, she sets her eyes squarely on his, smiling coyly at him; as if she already owns him.

And perhaps she does.

_"Only the best males are selected for sale. Any lesser would be an insult to our company."_

For all his control, he can't help the jerk in his body when her hand reaches down to cup him; her cold palm pressing against his heated flesh. The men behind him laugh under their breaths at his start, tugging the chains laid down his back in a warning as she steps in closer, chin by his shoulder. He can’t see her face, she’s most likely smiling beatifically at the henchmen holding him, but he certain feels her. The warm heat of her body radiates through her coat, a density that makes his muscles quiver as the spicy scent of her vanilla cinnamon perfume fills his senses.

Could it be a cream instead? Or an oil? It’s certainly something that has a stronger, lasting facet than just a perfume. He doesn’t get to contemplate her choice scent when her hand slides down along his abdomen, past the tight muscles and cups his length. Beyond these thoughts, his mind blacks out; the hardware shuts down because he can’t afford to think about her hand or the way –

_Oh God._

She inspects him there, gauging his size, most likely, and her hand strokes him in a long, languid glide that has him grinding down on his molars hard enough to crack them. It’s like she _wants_ him to lose control right there and then, the way she has a beautifully ignorant look on her face at the way he’s glaring heatedly at her face. His cock jerks in her hold, hardening despite himself as he struggles frantically to control his body. He releases a breath he hadn't realized was inside him when her hand pulls away.

Smirking at him one final time, Emily spins on her heels to face Mercier. "I’ll give you fifty thousand for him.”

Mercier sputters a demeaning laugh at her, shaking his head in a way that annoys Emily before he addresses her. "This stud is worth much more than just fifty thousand dollars, _madame_. He's a prime cut --."

"Allow me to reiterate. Fifty thousand _euros_."

"...shall I order for transport or will you take him with you tonight?" Mercier rubs his hands together like a greedy miser, grinning lasciviously at Emily as his eyes track her body one last time before glancing at Hotch’s rigid stance. His face is unreadable, as it always is, but the ticking muscle in his jaw tells Mercier that the man will not go down without a fight.

Emily barely glances at Mercier or Hotch as she spins on her heels and gestures with an impatient hand to her escort. The tall man detaches himself from the shadows, the only time he’s moved since Hotch had been led into the room, and passes Emily a briefcase. She smiles at the man radiantly, reaching out to stroke his sculptured jaw before turning back to Mercier with the briefcase.

The man takes it from her eagerly, flipping the locks and peering inside. His eyes widen at the rows of cold hard cash in front of him, and he smiles greasily at the woman with a low bow. “Would the _madame_ require anything else for her new pet?”

Emily hums dramatically, sighing with a satisfied look on her face as she regards Hotch with a newfound possession in her eyes. She owns him now, quite literally, and they both know it. Her eyes drop to the leather and metal wrapped around his neck, and then the bindings around his biceps and wrists with an intrigued arch of her brow.

This will be fun to play with.

She takes the leash from Mercier’s hands; the gleaming metal wraps itself around her slim wrist as if it had been made to do so. Hotch isn’t sure he’s seen anything as subtly erotic as the metal around her porcelain skin. "The collar will do. He knows how to walk to heel, doesn't he?” The question is more posed to Hotch than the French man, and Emily smiles a demure little warning at the man in chains when she sees that look in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll take the riding crop with me. New studs rarely come quietly."

Hotch’s lip twitches into a silent snarl, and his arms are wrenched behind his back as a pair of handcuffs are snapped around his wrists. Now that he is her property, they need to ensure that he does her no harm while under her control; as weakened as he feels, Hotch is sure that he still outweighs Emily by a good sixty pounds of muscle.

Not that he’d ever harm her in any way, but they don’t know that.

He starts to spew what he can at the men, swearing and threatening them. “When my team comes, they’ll have you wish you had never taken me in the first place,” he spits at them, jerking roughly against his bonds as his dark hazel eyes flash and his lips in a snarl. “They’ll have you _begging_ for mercy, instead of the other way around. _You_ will know pain when they come for you!”

She backhands him this time; the ring she wears on her index finger catches on his lip, and he bleeds.

“He has quite a mouth on him, _madame_. I warned you fairly in his portfolio.” Mercier gives her a look; a challenge yet again. He doubts her legitimacy, and he’s not hiding it very much. The money is fresh and her control of men is obvious, but still there’s something in her eyes that is missing. The ferocious gleam of authority and cold sadism seems muted, pushed back behind a curtain of…integrity?

Emily arches an eyebrow superciliously at him. “You doubt my ability to control this…beast?” Her tone is cold, her face is hard, and Mercier finally sees the flash of evil behind her thick lashes. “I can assure you, _monsieur Mercier,_ that I am very, very capable of keeping my men in line.”

Much to her surprise though, instead of yielding at her cold growl, Mercier smiles a challenging grin; quite like a dog’s bearing of teeth. “I hope the _madame_ does not mind a brief example.” There’s no suggestion in his voice – only command.

Refusing to surrender so easily – she’s the most experienced in agent extraction, for goodness sake – Emily thrusts her chin at him indignantly. “I don’t have to _prove myself_ to you, _monsieur._ ” She spins on her heels, moving towards the door and exit, only to find another burly guard standing in her way; a gun sitting ominously exposed on his hip.

Mercier smiles coldly again when Emily turns back to him in a whirl. “I believe you must have mistaken, _Madame_. It was not a request.”

And very suddenly, the tension in the room is thick enough to suffocate.

Emily purses her lips and turns to Hotch to hide the fear that begins to cloud her dark eyes. If Mercier catches but a glance of the uncertainty in her face; they’re all doomed. So she steps to Hotch in a swirl of confidence and power, stopping just in front of the man and staring at him in what can be mistaken for imperiousness.

 _Are you sure?_ Her wide doe eyes flicker on his face, the worry and fear clear to him and only him as she reaches out, tugs the leash hard in her hand.

He grimaces, but the slight jerk of his head assures her. _There’s no other way out._ He bears his teeth at her, but his eyes meet hers, and they both see the glaze shift over each other’s eyes.

_Alright, Mr. DeMille, I’m ready for my close-up._

Her hand slides slowly over the cold metal of the leash; gliding up towards the black leather collar around his neck and stroking it with a loving brush of her fingertips before her hand whips up, snatching his face in her hand and squeezing tight.

“On your knees, whore.”


	2. The Game

He jerks his head out of her grasp, scowling at her despite the man still holding him tight by his biceps. "I am not your slave!" he snarls.

Emily backhands him across the face again, pulling hard on the leash; the momentum takes him staggering to his knees, despite his flailing efforts of staying upright. "You are now," she tells him calmly, bending to sink her fingers into his hair and tugging sharply to force his head back in an arch. "Tell me, agent," she purrs into his ear, mouth hot on his skin as she nips the shell of his ear and drags her mouth down. "Does being this insolent get you off?"

When he refuses to answer her, Emily tugs sharper on his hair, but Hotch merely gasps in pain. Emily can see the man from the shadows moving towards her, and watches indifferently as he slams his heavy combat boot down onto the naked man's back and forces him to the floor.

Hotch grunts as his body connects to the carpeted floor; he can already feel the burns on his skin at the friction of his body sliding against it, but he can't push himself back up. Not when his hands are bound behind his back and he has no leverage on his knees.

Emily moves around him in a surge of power, but her legs are slow and careful in their strides. As if she knows her purpose and intentions, but she wants to take her own sweet time to get to them. She comes up beside his struggling body, and Hotch stares up helplessly at the woman's smug face as her foot comes up to press down on his neck.

When he begins to sputter and gasp, Emily smiles coldly down at him. "Here's how this goes, sweetheart. I own you; you do everything I ask you to. You do nothing without my permission and you address me as nothing but Mistress. You please me, I please you. You step out of line…" she lets her heeled foot come down harder on his neck, and Hotch cries out a desperate gasp for breath. "The last thing you'll have to worry about is Derek here putting a bullet through your skull. By the time I'm finished with you,  _whore_ ; you're going to wish he would.

I read in your portfolio that you were a man of the SWAT team. I suppose this means you're good at taking orders, then, aren't you?"

Hotch doesn't know if what he feels in his stomach is genuine fear or arousal.

"Aren't you, whore?"

His silence grants him less air, and Morgan's boot grinding down harder into his back. He resists still, so stubborn is the man that Emily rolls her eyes at him and bears down harder on her heel. The stiletto heel curves in dangerously at his Adam's apple, and she looks down at him with an impatient expectance.

"Yes, Mistress!" he gasps finally, and both Emily and Morgan lift their feet away from him. He chokes and sputters and coughs in a ball on the ground naked, bound and now bruised as his mind and ego struggle to process his position. As he forces himself onto his hands and knees weakly, he starts to doubt himself. He's not used to being undercover, waiting for extraction like Emily is. He was a SWAT team member, yes, but SWAT was all about going in loud and angry and unleashing a rain of bullets.

This…this is almost psychological torture to the man. Apart from the physical, that is.

No, he shakes his head firmly. No, he has to do this. He has to make it through this. If he breaks character now, he risks not just his life, but Emily's and Morgan's. Even if the younger federal agent has just ground his combat boot into his back. The muscles ache and burn as he bows his back and struggles not to gag at the feeling of air in his lungs, and it takes a moment before the collar tightens around his neck again and he's forced to his feet once more.

"Will you disobey me again, whore?" She tilts her head at him expectantly; Mercier and his men are watching eagerly from the sidelines – the energy the dark haired pair exudes thrills them more than the others do, for the sole reason of it being so… _thick._

"That depends," Hotch manages to growl; the collar still limits his air intake, and talking too much makes him lightheaded. "Will you keep being a bitch if I do?"

Emily's dark eyes flash now; apparently she doesn't very much enjoy being called a bitch. "A bridle and a riding crop if you please, Monsieur Mercier. He'll need something to keep him quiet and to bite down on." Mercier almost looks giddy at the request, and scurries off to find her one. He returns not a minute later, armed with another contraption made of sleek leather and cold steel that looks more like a muzzle than anything else. Eagerly he hands it to Emily, who approaches Hotch, smirking when he begins to throw his head up much like an unruly horse.

Morgan grasps his jaw in his hand, almost crushing the bone in his grasp as he holds the thrashing man's head steady. The leather strap slides over his head, framing his face on either side as it rests in a neat lock behind his head. A narrow, cylindrical piece of silicone covered metal is hooked to the leather straps, and it sits over his tongue now as Emily locks it in place with a brass link. The bit is cold and foreign on his tongue; the taste of silicone makes him nauseous but he cannot push it out of his mouth. The strap behind his head prevents this, and all he can do is bite down and glare at the woman's hard face as the whip lashes sharply across his chest.

The leather riding crop whips wide red brands across his chest and abdomen, each lick sharper than its predecessor. His moans and grunts are muffled behind the bit in his mouth; his teeth sink so deep that they touch the metal underneath the silicone, and Emily doesn't seem to be anywhere near halfway done with him. The whip strikes against a carpet burn; he yelps against his will and bites down hard in shame.

Emily stops, whip raised midair as she stares at the man for a moment. Pulling it down, she grips the whip tightly in her hands, hiding the quiver in her fingers and passing off her silence as one of smugness rather than concern. To Mercier, she has broken him enough to humiliate him, and she turns to the short French man with a sly, beatific smile. "Is there anywhere I can take him that's a little more private?" She bats her impossibly long eyelashes at Mercier; he's already panting like an overheated dog at the show, and she turns to him fully, caressing the whip in her hands.

"He seems like a bit of a screamer." She pouts then. "I want more toys play with."

The likelihood of Mercier letting them walk out is becoming dangerously low, and Emily feels the pit of her stomach coil into a tight ball at the idea of failing the extraction. Morgan wears an earpiece, and from the low set of his brow, Emily knows that the time between extraction and game-playing is far and wide in between. If she can't get them out, she can certainly try to get them  _alone_. She needs to get them somewhere private enough to be able to communicate with Hotch other than wielding a whip against him.

And to also perhaps put a pair of pants on him – it's becoming very difficult for her to keep her eyes away from his lower body.

Mercier smiles at her. "But of course,  _madame_. Come with me." He leads her down a hallway, Morgan shoving Hotch ahead of him behind her as she grasps the leash in her hand and walks him much like a dog at her heel. His breathing is heavy from around the bridle, and Emily almost contemplates removing it, but decides against it when Mercier pushes open a door and gestures inside. "For your every whim, _madame_."

It's a large, extravagant bedroom, dimly lit with soft yellow light. The bed is large and covered in deep red silk sheets; four poster bedframe with hooks to allow for easy restraint and leverage on the headboard. In the far corner of the room are a desk and a wall lined in various torture devices, all neatly organized according to size, shape and use. The sharp scent of disinfectant makes their eyes water somewhat, but Emily turns to Mercier with as much a grateful smile as she can muster.

Hotch's leash is wielded by Emily still, and he stands in what he hopes to be a broken posture as Emily kisses Mercier on both cheeks and lets the seedy man grip her shoulders in his pudgy hands. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you,  _monsieur_ ," she coos at him, and tugs Hotch to walk as she steps into the room and leaves both Mercier and Morgan by the door.

"Ah, the pleasure if all mine,  _madame_ ," Mercier assures her, giving her one last leering smile as she steps through the door. "I hope your new pet pleases you to your expectations."

Emily darts a coy smile Hotch's way, and strokes the high arch of his cheekbone. "Don't worry – he'll learn soon enough." She turns back to Morgan, jerking her head in the slightest. "Watch the door, won't you, darling? You know how I get when there are  _interruptions_ ," she hums sharply, dark eyes casting pointedly at the taller man.

Morgan nods his head obediently, quite relieved to be standing on the other side of the door. There's only so much he can stand to watch.

As soon as the door is shut behind her, Emily turns back to Hotch and pulls him to her by the leash. She steps so close to him that the semi-hard throb that is his cock slips just between the folds of her trench coat, and Emily gusts a breath against his ear, eliciting a low groan from the man's throat.

"I'm betting on the room being bugged," she whispers to him, running her hand down his body. If cameras watch them, it will look like nothing more than her whispering her plans to him, and Emily reaches down to wrap her fingers around his wrist, stroking the skin there tenderly as her lips just touch the corner of his jaw. She places a ghost of a kiss there. "I'm sorry for what I had to do."

He jerks his head away with a grunt, as if she's spoken something vile in his ear, but the jerk is in fact a shake of his head; he doesn't blame her and holds no grudge against her. He huffs behind the bridle – except for maybe the bit in his mouth, and Emily reaches up to remove it. The removal of the silicone from his mouth has Hotch stretching his jaw in a relieved yawn; the taste is still foul on his tongue though. When his eyes open again though, they're still dark and cold and detached, flickering over her shoulder to the wall directly across the bed.

"There are at least two camera angles directed towards us at this very moment." Emily is impressed – his mouth barely moves as he murmurs these words to her. It looks very much like he's spitting something cruel at her, and Emily steps into his personal space and wraps her hand around his neck.

Her fingers make the guise of tightening around his neck as she places her face by his ear. "Morgan's got Garcia in his ear. I don't know how long we have, but we need to make this work." The tips of her fingers squeeze his neck in a gentle touch; an apology before stepping back with a cold, hard look on her face. With that, she shoves him backwards onto the bed.

Hotch falls onto his back, grimacing when the chain and leather bindings of his arms bite into his back as he lies sprawled over the silken sheets. He stares up at Emily's looming figure as she kneels over him, turning him onto his front carelessly and begins to unfasten the chains that bind him. His relief comes in small shivers down his spine as her fingers dance over his flesh, coaxing more shudders from the man.

"Well, aren't you a handsome stud. Mercier was right when he said you would be worth every penny. Strong, muscular, very handsome indeed. You're perfect for riding." She tugs on the leash; he arches his back and staggers back to his feet, stumbling to his knees as she winds the chain around her leather heel and stomps down. He chokes a cough at the jerk, but says nothing as she circles him.

"Rather quiet, aren't you?"

Her voice filters in and out, near and far as she moves around him on his hands and knees; he glares at the carpet as he struggles to think of anything and everything that will stave off the erection he's beginning to sport.

_THWACK!_

The sharp sting of the whip to his back surprises him, has him arching his back and throwing his head backwards in a hiss. "NNNGHH!"

_"You will answer when spoken to, whore."_

He doesn't speak – how can he when he's biting down on his lip so hard it bleeds? Emily offers him no sympathy, only annoyance at his silence as she brandishes the whip in her hand again and brings it down, harder.

_THWACK!_

"Rrrrgh!" He stumbles forward, away from the burning licks as he drops his head down and struggles to breathe. Suddenly he wishes the bridle had stayed in its place, because at least then he'd have something to bite down on.

Emily stares down at the gasping man; imperious and smug as the whip flies down under his chin and lifts it, forcing the man's dark eyes to her face. She smirks at the flash of pain there, and uses the flat end of the whip to caress his face. "Know your place, whore. You were bought for the sole purpose of pleasure and pleasure alone. Sometimes you need to be disciplined, and then you understand better, your place, don't you, whore?"

His eyes flicker a moment and Hotch's face becomes a mask of hesitation and uncertainty, before he bows his head in surrender. "...Yes, mistress."

"Good boy."

His body is thrumming with pains and aches and bruises, and yet amidst the pain is the heated bloom of pleasure. Roiling and curling deep in his belly and spreading out, hot and maddening over his limbs down to his loins as his cock jolts and grows stronger between his legs. He reasons it to be adrenaline, but there is no denying the steadily growing wave of pleasure taking over his body.

"On your feet." He obeys without protest. "Get on the bed and lie down." He does, and is grateful for the soft sheets on his heated skin.

She comes hovering over him like an ethereal being; long, lithe and beautiful as she straddles his narrow hips with her thighs and leans over his body. He reaches up to hold her steady by her hips, but the move is curtailed by a sharp slap across his mouth.

"Touch not what is only for you to see, whore," she reprimands him, voice low in warning as she sinks her short nails into the muscle of his chest.

His mouth trembles, throbs sharply. "Yes, Mistress." He lowers his hands, lets her raise them over his head and grips onto the hard wood of the headboard.

The chain is still wielded in her hand, and Emily slides his bindings around the headboard before securing them around his wrists once more. The chains lock into place and she sit back on her haunches, admiring the hard lines of his body spread out under her. Emily's blood red lips curl into a feral smile as she reaches for the buttons of her trench coat, slipping each button from its place slowly. She's very aware of his dark eyes tracking her every move; the pool of lust and desire in his eyes threaten to drown her as she arches her back, and the garment slides off her body like water.

The bare skin she reveals give him a small swell of pride – and a hard jolt to his cock.

Her body is glorious; pale, soft and smooth, like in his wildest dreams. Perfectly sized, magnificent breasts tempt him to touch them; the rosy nipples calling to his twitching fingers, but he can do nothing to please them. There isn't time to appreciate the godlike image before him though, as her mouth descends upon his skin, and she lays hot, wet kisses along his neck down his chest.

"I thought the idea of this was for  _me_ to pleasure  _you_ ," he gasps at her, unable to help the buck of his hips when her lips encase a nipple, and her tongue laves over it teasingly. Beneath and between her firm thighs, he can feel the raw heat of her core against his cock; so hot it almost burns.

Emily hums against his chest, grazing her teeth along the blunt little nipple before pulling back with a grin. "Who's to say that the pleasure is yours exclusively?" she counters, and grinds down on his hips with a purr. He smothers a groan as he bucks his hips, thrusting his cock against her dripping cunt only to be slapped across the face again.

Her heat marks the skin of his pubic bone, wet and slick against his cock as she moves her hips in torturous circles on his body. "You take what I give you, whore. Nothing more." The flare of pleasure hits her unexpectedly, and from Emily's lips comes forth a moan that they both feel in their cores.

His hands flex in their bindings, the wood groaning under the strain as he struggles not to just rip the headboard to pieces as she drags her nails down his chest, riding him in deep, purposeful grinds. Teasing, toying and never fulfilling. "I feel like you're enjoying calling me that too much," he groans, flinching readily when she sinks her nails into his chest. "Apologies, Mistress," he gasps hurriedly.

She rewards him with a hard slide along his cock, grinding down against the throbbing steel but never allowing entrance. It is then she lifts herself off him, leaving but the evidence of her arousal upon his skin. He arches up at the loss, disappointed and extremely horny now but Emily rounds the bed, to where the table of devices sits. When she turns to him, he sees the pink flush of arousal on her beautiful porcelain skin, and the white stick of wax in her hand.

His throat constricts, his neck tenses in a gorgeous line unconsciously as he eyes her over his nose when her lithe body glides towards him again. The candle isn't lit; not yet, as the bed dips with her weight, and his body is graced with the warm heat of her skin pressed against it once more. His abs clench in anticipation, hard muscle quivering as she sits herself on body again, trapping his hardened cock between their bodies.

"Have you ever been dominated in bed, whore?" she asks him conversationally, examining the candle in her hand before she reveals a golden lighter in her other hand. She strikes the flint – the sparks jolt him beneath her.

The man's breath comes out in pants, the panic he shows is mostly for the cameras, but the well in his throat is very real indeed. "No, Mistress." The flint is struck again; the flame conjures in a soft, alluring glow. He eyes it like a horse terrified as she brings the flame to the candle, and watches mesmerized as the wick takes flame. Immediately his body starts to recoil on instinct away from the lit candle in her hand, but where can he really go, with a naked woman upon his legs and his hands bound to the headboard?

Emily looks almost amused at the sudden change in demeanor; the writhing of his body is tamped after a moment as she wields the candle in her hand, the flickering flame dancing across her face, and he sees the gleam of teeth in the flame. "Consider this your lucky day then, whore."

The first drip has him screaming.

He arches his back, taut over the bed as he writhes against the dripping hot wax, the white heat dripping onto his flesh and spreading the most delicious kind of pain known to man. It burns against his skin, scalds him with pleasure as she leaves a trail of fast-hardening candle wax in a white river down his chest to his navel. Each drop is punctuated by the hiss of his breath and the jolt of his skin, but the man's helpless grunts only pleases the woman as she lets her free hand glide down over his cock and squeezes it.

The sob that rips from his throat is torn between one of maddening pleasure and relief, and shame at his arousal at the hot wax that brands his skin in red welts. Her hand pumps him in long, purposeful strokes; he's painfully hard and torturously close as she sweeps the pad of her thumb over the blunt head of his cock and spreads the pearly drops over his skin. She lets the candle drip over his skin in an almost methodical manner – a long line of drips down the line of his abs, circling his navel and then leading away to drip over his nipples.

All the while, her hand fucks him roughly into a spiraling hysteria. She recognizes the sense of urgency in his face and hips and cock; she squeezes him in a warning as he sucks in a whimpering breath.

"Not a drop of come until I say so, whore. Any sooner and I'll promise you a week's worth of punishment tonight." The smirk on her face is the image of the Devil. "Unless you ask for it, like the whore you are."

His hands curl into fists; his short nails dig into the skin of his palm and threaten to break skin as his body and mind struggle to come to an agreement. He refuses to succumb to her torture; he's the dominant male of the pack, damn it, he never surrendered to threats! But God help him, the way her hand moves over him with such precision and skill he swears he'll explode and die if he doesn't come soon.

So he swallows the harsh lump in his throat, the moan and growl that catches there – and shoves his pride out the window – as he throws his head back and begs her. "Please, Emily," he hisses, gasping sharply when her nails trail along the underside of his cock. " _Please."_

Her hand is around his neck before he can register it, and it  _squeezes_  sharply.

" _That is not my name_ ," she spits harshly, and the candle's flame is lowered dangerously close to his skin. That kind of slip of the tongue can end both of their lives before the light of the candle burns out.

He gasps again, sputtering an apology under her grasp. "Please, Mistress," he chokes, and the flame is gone. In its place is the rising fire of his orgasm, spreading across his body like the burning licks of real flames as her hand slides down over him once more.

"Please, what, whore?" Emily demands. "Say it."

He's so close, so painfully hovering over the precipice of pleasure and release that his vision tunnels and his throat constricts. "Please, damn you!  _Let me come!"_ he roars, hysterical as his body starts to burn hotter than the flame hovering above his body.

"Dear  _God_!"

The white heat drips meticulously onto his swollen cock, and Hotch nearly blacks out as his body goes rigid and his hips thrust forward in two, three juts, and from the tip of his cock comes the hard spurts of his release. The roar is hoarse in his throat as she coaxes more from him, squeezing and flexing her skilled hand over his cock as he spills onto his stomach and thighs, coating her moving fingers in the white essence.

When she finally releases him, he slumps down against the bed, breathing so hard that his vision blurs with dancing stars. Through the haze of grey and black and white, his flickering eyes can only just focus on the image of her bringing her hand to her mouth, and he's amazed at the sharp plunge of pleasure back into his cock as he watches her lick her fingers clean.

She moans in her throat at the salty taste of him on her tongue; her eyes flash with delight when his cock jolts at the sound. Her eyes gleam even brighter, with the curl of her lips when his face burns pink with embarrassment, though his body betrays the shame she knows sits heavy in his chest at having taken such pleasure in a depraved act like this. His darkness has always lured her into him; now it's her chance to show him that the darkness is something to exploit.

"Have I broken you yet, whore?" she whispers gleefully to him as she hovers over his panting chest now, nails breaking the wax as her mouth soothes the red skin beneath them. He has yet to find his tongue, and she finds that she like it that way – she's gratified at his speechlessness – and she busies herself with picking away the dried wax on his skin. In their wake is an intricate map of redness; a claim of his skin. Her breath is damp against his groin as she leans down with a feral grin, and takes him in her mouth to clean him.

The shudders that seize him are violent enough to rattle the chains by the bedframe, and his eyes blur with tears as her tongue teases him skillfully, taking the last of his come from him before pulling away. The cold air both soothes and enraptures him; Hotch can feel a tear fall from the corner of his eye.

"It's not a sin to take pleasure from this." Her voice is surprisingly quiet and calm as she crawls up his bound body, settling gently now upon his hips as she presses her body flush against his; a sharp contrast of the harsh treatment she'd been giving him all night. Her hands smooth up his chest, brushing against the red streaks of smarting skin where the wax had lain, and she settles her palms on the broad plane of his chest for leverage.

"Pain is a part of pleasure; it's part of the process of sexual discovery that we all have to go through." Her breathy husk works to lull his throbbing mind and body, and she lifts herself over his already hardening cock. She strokes over him teasingly, spreading her wetness over his skin that tells him that he hasn't been the only one taking pleasure from this. She's so hot she wants to collapse, but she tells him these things not in words, but her body as she grinds down desperately on the steel of his cock.

He moans weakly, straining uselessly against his shackles and thrusting his hips to meet her swiveling hips as his mouth parts in a wordless breath. Her words flow through him, around him like the sounds of a soothing wave on the shore, and his mind is suddenly acutely aware of her hand grasping the base of his cock. "Would you wish for me to fuck you, Mistress?" he asks her, no louder than a breathy sigh as he feels the soft heat of her core just kissing the swollen head of his cock. "Would you wish of me to give you pleasure now? After you've been so generous to your whore?"

"Tell me what my Mistress wishes of me, and I shall obey," he whispers lowly.

Emily moans, and he knows that his words have aroused her further when the smell of sex thickens between them. She strokes him between her folds and sits up, proud as she presses a hand to his stomach to balance herself. "Please me then, whore. Prove to me you are as skilled as you wish for me to believe."

She's the image of a goddess in rapture as she tucks the wide head of his cock between her folds and begins to sink down so, so agonizingly slow. The pace she sinks unto him is agonizingly slow, and his jaw hurts from how hard he's gritting his teeth, but he forces his hips to remain still. In her beautiful face, he sees the tinges of pain in her brow and mouth as she slides so deliciously tight and hot around him. His hands flex again, but this time for an entirely different reason.

"Have I hurt you, Mistress?" he murmurs to her, smothering a growl in his throat as she flexes around him and her walls grip him tight.

Emily shivers at his voice; the tables have turned now as his low rumbles rake shivers down her spine. She flexes her hips around him and settles herself lower down onto him, with some trouble. As wet and ready as she is to be fucked thoroughly, Emily is tight, and he large. "Hurt is good," she tells him, licking her lips in a gasp as his hips twitch and he falls deeper inside her. A strangled moan of satisfaction escapes her mouth as she finally seats herself onto him completely, testing her inner walls as he twitches and throbs inside her.

"Hurt is necessary."

There is something about this now; apart from the hurt and the torture and the circumstances that has led to this. There is something about filling Emily and feeling her stretched around him so wonderfully that has his hear lurching in his chest and his breath escaping his lungs. It's almost as if he'd been made to fit there – to find his place nestled deep inside her, so deep he can feel her inner walls trembling around him.

He gives an experimental thrust, and Emily's breath hitches in her throat. She feels it too. "Hit me," he blurts suddenly, and the moment is gone.

He can't afford the moment. Not now, not at this very moment. She opens her dark eyes in confusion over his face, and he pulls at his chains before bucking into her roughly. The act is almost immediately regretted when Emily lets out a sharp cry, but it is necessary. This is too intimate of a setting; there is too much sentiment in their actions to convince the watching cameras. "Hit. Me." The words are forced through gritted teeth as he thrusts his hips again, roughly and desperately until Emily's nails bear down on his skin and she backhands him across the face.

She hits him, and she rides him now, hard and fast and greedy as she chases the coveted precipice of her own release. "Don't move," she barks at him through her passion-hazed thoughts and Hotch's hips still with reluctant obedience. She rides him expertly, nails digging into flesh, thighs clenching tight around his narrow hips as she slams down again and again onto his cock. The heated bubble coiling in her stomach is already almost dizzyingly hot – she'd been aroused since she'd caught sight of the naked man – and Emily reaches out to pull at the chain of his collar, tightening it around his neck.

"Do you yield, whore?" she pants, clinging onto the chain tightly as her free hand snakes down her body to where they join. Her body jolts and her back arches as her fingers graze the sensitive hood of her clit, and she presses down with a frantic need as she grinds down desperately on him. She can feel him pulsating inside her, straining and throbbing in his stillness as she watches the vein in his neck throb with his restraint.

"Yes, Mistress," he groans in reply, eyes clamped shut as he arches his back and bites down as the rising pleasure becomes too much to ignore. "I yield. I yield it all to you, Mistress, only you. Take what you wish of me in any way you want, Mistress. I am yours to break; yours to abuse. Please, Mistress,  _please_. I – I." He almost sobs at the painful agony he feels amidst the pleasure. "I need to come, Mistress!"

Emily tightens the collar, enraptured by the look on his face. The sheer abandon and desperation on his handsome face that makes her clench that much tighter around him. "Are you close, whore?"

"So close, Mistress," he chants, pained. "So close it hurts."

She grinds down harder, almost there, very nearly there. "Good." She cants her hips forward; takes him in impossibly deep that she feels him in her throat. "Good. That's what it should feel like."

In a rush, she clenches her thighs painfully tight around his hips, and her walls clamp down on him mercilessly as she rides out her orgasm in a violent scream. She quivers, shivers and shakes as she throttles him, gasping and whimpering breathlessly as she drug out the last of her aftershocks over him. Her eyes meet his dark, pleading ones, and she sees the quiver in his jaw. She leans over him, kissing the corner of his mouth before she lays her breath over his ear.

"Come for me, Aaron. Come  _hard_."

It's as if she's unleashed a beast. She barely has time to arch her back and sit up high as he begins to piston his hips in a manic pace, pounding viciously into her for those long, agonizing moments before he plunges upwards one final, splitting thrust and he roars out his release so hard his entire body shudders at the violence of it. The wet heat spreads inside her, thick, hot and abundant as she sits in gentle undulating swivels above him, accepting his release into her eager body.

There's barely time for him to catch his breath when there's a pounding at the door, and Emily's head whips up to it just as the doors burst open, and the room is flooded with SWAT team members. In his unfocused mind, Hotch can only see and feel Emily pulling away from him, and standing unashamedly by the bedside with her arms akimbo.

"At least have the decency to  _wait_ for my call."

Beyond this, Hotch doesn't remember much, as his mind is so robbed by the intensity of his release that he can only muster a pleased smile before falling into unconsciousness.

* * *

The following month, Hotch is back to work. He's sore and aching still, somewhat, but only by his own stubborn refusal to care for himself properly. Most of what has happened has been put behind him, and the rest of the team, save for the pretty brunette that comes knocking on his office door the first day he comes back.

He looks up at her and smiles; albeit shyly. "Emily."

Emily smiles beguilingly at him, leaning against the doorframe of his office. "Hi," she greets him warmly, stepping into the office and shutting the door behind her. There is nothing but casual intention in her steps as she rounds his desk and plants herself on the edge of his desk, facing the man.

"What -." He stumbles forward in his seat as she tugs him forward by his tie, and falls willingly into her possessive kiss. His eyes slide shut as he wraps his hands around her waist and pulls her onto his lap, deepening the kiss as her tongue flits out to run along his. She tastes like strawberry and cream, and he pulls her greedily into his lap until their need for air forces him to release her.

They sit there for a moment, quiet panting and short giggles shared between them as he stares up adoringly at her face. He cups her cheek, strokes the high arch of it, and leans back in his seat, her perched contentedly in his lap still. "What called for this little welcome back?" There's a curious glint in her eyes, something he can't place, but…she's glowing.

Emily grins, wriggles until she settles between the cradle of his hips and drops a sweet kiss on his grinning lips. "I thought you'd like a welcome back from  _this_ little one."

He pulls back, eyes wide and suspicious as she darts a pointed glance to her middle, still flat, still perfect, but glowing. "Really?" he asks her uncertainly, excitedly.

"Truly," she confirms, and lets him lay his large hand over her stomach. It rests warm there, and she hums a purr when his thumb strokes her skin. "Paris," she tells him. That's the only answer he needs.

There's recognition in his eyes, and Hotch breaks into a wide, happy grin as he pulls her down for a dizzying kiss. When he pulls back though, his face is stern. "No more field cases. You stay back with JJ, and no more coffee."

Emily pouts, but doesn't protest as she slides her hands along his chest and bats her eyelashes at him. "I still get to wield the crop though, don't I?"

_"…fine. But the bridle is out of the question. My dentist complained about my crowns last week."_

She nods her head indulgently, settling into his neck and sighing contentedly. "The pillow then."

_"…and no candles."_

"Now you're just spoiling my fun!"

**Author's Note:**

> The French in this chapter is thanks to Google Translate, so the gist of the conversation goes as such:
> 
> "The American, as requested."
> 
> "This is the spy?"
> 
> "Yes. He betrayed us, and now we punish him for it."
> 
> Putain - French term for Whore


End file.
